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It felt like an eternity, lying in the back of the car, staring at the ceiling as the streetlights cast alternating beams of light and shadows over her. Maya’s kidnapper wasn’t driving fast, a deliberate choice that hinted at his confidence. Was he sure they weren’t being followed? Or had they already left Harvest Grove behind, making him feel secure in the distance they’d covered? Neither scenario was comforting, especially given the fog in her brain that clouded her thoughts.
She tried to move, but her body resisted her commands, leaving her almost entirely paralyzed. Only her fingers managed slight twitches. Whatever he’d injected her with was potent, leaving her mind in a hazy stupor, far from clear enough to summon any spell that might help her escape.
Desperation clawed at her as she focused on moving her fingers, willing them to obey. The effort was monumental, the fog in her brain a thick barrier, but she clung to that small spark of determination. She concentrated, and slowly, painfully, another finger twitched. It was a tiny movement, but it was progress. It gave her a sliver of hope.
In the front seat, her kidnapper drove in silence, the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires the only sounds breaking the stillness of the night. He seemed unconcerned, as if he had all the time in the world.
Maya’s mind drifted in and out of clarity, fragments of thoughts piecing together as she fought the drug’s effects. The rhythm of the car’s motion, the shadows flickering overhead, and the distant hum of the tires became her world, a repetitive cycle that both lulled and tormented her.
She focused on her fingers again, coaxing them to move more. Another finger responded, a slight bend that took immense effort. Each small success fueled her determination, a tiny rebellion against the paralysis that held her captive.
As the car continued its journey, Maya clung to that growing defiance, her mind slowly sharpening with every minuscule victory. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she refused to surrender completely. Even if she couldn’t break free now, she would fight, inch by inch, until an opportunity presented itself.
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The hooded men worked methodically, drawing intricate symbols on the ground with dark powder around the crosses. Dawson, suspended on one of the makeshift crucifixes, kept his eyes barely open, peeking through slitted eyelids. He needed to maintain the illusion of unconsciousness to gather as much information as possible.
As he listened intently, snippets of conversation reached his ears. The one who had captured Angelo had managed only a brief call for backup before the line went dead. The others had tried to reach Angelo’s house, but it was swarming with police, forcing them to retreat. The same situation unfolded at Sam’s place; the police presence was overwhelming. Dawson’s heart lifted slightly—at least Sam and Angelo were still free.
Maya’s fate, however, was uncertain. The hooded men exchanged worried glances, muttering about the lack of contact with the one sent to “finish what he started.” Their concern grew as the minutes ticked by with no news.
Dawson’s wrists ached where they were bound, the rough wood chafing against his skin. He wasn’t a praying man, but in that moment, he sent a desperate plea to any deity that might be listening. “Please, let Angelo, Sam, and Maya be safe. Let them come for us.”
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This guy had to be some kind of circus escapee. That was the only explanation Angelo could come up with for his attacker’s speed and agility. Angelo chased him through the cornfields, gripping the bat tightly, determined to beat information out of him. He wasn’t sure if this was the same guy who’d attacked Maya or another sent after him, but he intended to get answers. George Stiles wasn’t the only Stiles with a temper problem, and right now, Angelo had no interest in controlling his.
The stalks of corn whipped past as he pushed himself harder. Up ahead, he heard the sound of a car passing. Panic surged through him. If this Witch-Hunter had a getaway car, he might escape.
Angelo whispered a spell under his breath, “Bend and bow.”
The cornstalks ahead of him bent away, revealing the back of his elusive prey. Sensing he was exposed, the man glanced over his shoulder, cursed loudly, and sprinted faster.
The road was just ahead. Angelo’s eyes narrowed. Switching his grip on the bat, he calculated the distance and hurled it. The handle struck the back of the man’s head just as his feet hit the asphalt. The man stumbled, spun around, and then a car slammed into him at full speed.
Angelo skidded to a stop, wide-eyed, before hurrying out of the cornfield to retrieve the bat. His stomach churned at the sight of the twisted body lying on the highway. The man was dead.
Bringing a hand to his mouth, Angelo forced himself to look away. Some feet away, a car lay flipped on its roof, smoke beginning to billow from it. He heard another engine revving and looked up, eyes widening as a motorcycle turned the dangerous curve and skidded to a stop. “Sam?”
Sam’s eyes were wide with horror as he slid off his motorcycle and raced toward the car. “Maya’s in the back!”
“What?” Angelo hissed, rushing after him. Sam was sitting on the ground, trying to kick in the back passenger window, the door too crumpled to open.
“Fuck this,” Sam muttered, backing away and holding his hand out in front of him.
Angelo’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the fresh burns marring Sam’s hands. “What happened-?”
Sam didn’t respond. He closed his fist and flung it to the side. The back passenger door crumpled like paper and flew off in the direction he’d gestured.
Realizing there was no time for questions, Angelo dropped to his knees and crawled into the back seat. Maya lay crumpled on the roof, her eyes open but vacant, twitching fingers the only sign she was still conscious.
“She’s paralyzed,” Sam said, answering Angelo’s unspoken question as he carefully pulled her from the smoking car. “The guy injected her with something.”
Angelo grunted as he finally stood, pulling Maya up into his arms. Her body was completely limp, but her eyes darted between him and Sam, filled with worry.
Sam checked the front seat and grimaced. “The driver’s dead.”
“Good,” Angelo muttered. “We need to get to the Brew.”
“We need to get to Dawson, Jason, and Harper,” Sam argued, urgency in his voice. “They’re going to be hit as well, and-”
“And they’ll need us all at a hundred percent,” Angelo interrupted. “Pick up the bat. I don’t want my fingerprints left here.”
Sam flinched as he picked up the bat, clearly in pain.
“You can barely hold the bat. I don’t know how you managed to drive that damned thing,” Angelo said, shaking his head. “We need to get back to the Brew. I have things there that can help dull your pain and speed up your healing. Plus, we can counteract whatever’s paralyzing her.”
Sam hesitated, but he knew Angelo was right. He was smart enough to recognize that their current state wouldn’t help anyone.
“Ride the bike to my house,” Angelo ordered. “It’s on the other side of this cornfield. Be careful—the cops are probably still there. My truck’s out back. We’ll load your motorcycle into the bed and head to the Brew.” He shifted Maya’s weight, her cheek resting against his chest. “We’ll be right behind you.”